Sins of the Brother
by JUSTxAxFRIENDLYxPSYCHO
Summary: For most of his life, Harry had been paying for something. Whether it was for the imagined slights visited upon his aunt by his mother, or the deliberate hurts his professor suffered at his father's hand. Now, he must pay for the selfish indulgences of an older half-brother he never knew he had.
1. Chapter 1

**Sins of the Brother**

**Premise: **For most of his life, Harry had been paying for _something_. Whether it was for the imagined slights visited upon his aunt by his mother, or the deliberate hurts his professor suffered at his father's hand. Now, he must pay for the selfish indulgences of an older half-brother he never knew he had.

**Warnings: **Marital Infidelity, L being L, Smart-ass Harry, Mello (who ALWAYS needs a warning), teen smoking (*cough*Matt*cough*), and Raito's villainous monologuing. OH, and one...count em, ONE O.C. ...a necessary OC, but nonetheless. Forgive me.

Also, **Massive Spoilers.**

Also, also...**currently Unbeta'd.**

**Disclaimer: **Neither series belong to me. The basic premise of this mash up, certainly, but the source material..? No. OH, also...some of the quotes are pulled from the **_Death Note_** anime/manga...I am familiar with both, and can't always recall which came from which, so fair warning. Though they may be altered slightly, or used out of context, I still acknowledge that they are originated elsewhere.

.. .. .. ..

"The younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder"-Jane Austen

.. .. .. ..

**Prelude to The Fall: My Brother, the Bother**

Present Day: Location, Undisclosed

L had never been one to delude himself, about anything. He was the ultimate realist. He knew he was self-indulgent to a disgusting degree, and more than a bit of an asshole, and he was fine with this. His bad posture, and eating habits, and people skills—or his lack thereof—had little bearing on the work he was trying to do. Who cared if he looked a wreck, or stepped on toes and irreparably bruised egos, if cases got solved, and criminals were stopped?

He certainly didn't.

Watari, on the other hand, _did_ care. He cared if L slept enough, or ate his vegetables, or slouched for hours on end, or showered. Watari sighed, and frowned, if he talked down to his clients, or subtly insulted them in that dry, mocking way of his. He honestly despaired that his charge had never managed to retain his many, tedious lessons on manners and proper conduct.

L, on the other hand, didn't see much use in all that nonsense. Sleep, or vegetables, or clean clothes, or manners didn't solve cases. He did. _He_ solved them, and with great efficiency, he might add, and without needing all that fuss.

That wasn't to say he had failed to take in the lessons. Quite the opposite. He knew how to mimic a gentleman in word and action...and could do so, better than any stage actor...he just didn't care to try.

He was _indifferent_, not idiotic.

"L...it's time." Watari's voice drifted across the dark room, and L glanced over his shoulder at the man, his gaze fixed on the food cart slowly being rolled towards his little spot on the floor.

He held back a wince as his teeth dug into the soft flesh of his thumb, dark eyes sparkling as he took in the succulent curves of the luscious strawberries, perched on a luxuriant bed of frothy, white frosting. The golden hues of the the generous slice of shortcake called to him in a Siren Song of Sugary Sweetness.

How he needed that cake in his mouth. Right. Now.

The man cleared his throat, and L frowned, jerking his gaze away from his prize reluctantly. "L. The children are waiting."

L huffed. The little troublemakers could wait a bit longer, for all he cared. He wanted his cake. L stared up at Watari from his crouch on the floor. The man's gaze was pleasantly blank, but his eyes were hard, unyielding. Well, damn. It looked like his poor cake was to be held as hostage, til he fulfilled his duty to the House's children.

His bruised, wet thumb jabbed at the buttons on his glowing laptop, and his dark eyes bore in frustrated boredom as the screen flickered to life. With a deft flick of his fingers, his electronic voice changer flickered to life.

"Hello."

Dark eyes watched with vague amusement as the crowd of children came to life with excited squeals and laughter. Too much laughter. His lip twitched in a sneer. Watari gently cleared his throat, and L felt his shoulders hunch.

He didn't need to look at the man to know that he was giving him a Look. He could even postulate, down to the percentage, the likelihood of the Look being disapproving, with undertones of 'they are children and it is Christmas,' as if that had anything to do with anything. These children were genii, and potential Heirs...the whole giggling thing had no place in criminal investigation.

. . . .

L's bored gaze dragged to the clock on his glowing screen. An hour. He'd been sitting here, doing this whole nice thing for an hour, and still his cake was being withheld from him. It was far beyond unfair. It was cruel. He tossed a baleful glare over his shoulder at Watari, a finger hovering threateningly over the power button.

His intentions were clear. Either his guardian could relinquish his hold on the desired cake, or L would protest in the only way he could...by 'ruining' the Christmas of all the little brats hanging on his every word. Watari frowned, but gave in, and L felt a surge of triumph. Really, it was too easy.

Roger, as much as he disliked the man—the feeling was unmistakably mutual—at least had no such exploitable weakness. Well, maybe his tea, or his bugs, but L didn't think those were very good bargaining chips, when it came down to it, which is why he'd never tried bargaining with the man, about anything.

He digressed. The cake was his.

L smiled happily, sliding his fork with sensual slowness into the pillowy depths of the golden cake, eyes gleaming as he watched the silky frosting and plump, juicy strawberries give way under the forceful penetration. Watari tsked, and L ignored him, and the prattling child on the other end of the call.

Watari called his devotion to his chosen food obscene, bordering on pornographic. L disagreed. He enjoyed his cake, true, but he'd never actually copulate with his cake. That would be a waste of a perfectly delicious dessert.

He swallowed his first mouthful slowly. Perfection. His eyes glanced up at the screen lazily, taking in the silence. Ah, yes. He was supposed to answer the brat's question. Let's see, what was it..? Something about justice..?

L took another bite of cake, slowly chewing. He set the plate down deliberately, picking up his sugar-thickened tea, and sipping at it. He grimaced at the lukewarm temperature. Behind him, he could hear Watari shifting, wordlessly urging him to just get on with it. He sighed.

"It's not a sense of justice. Figuring out difficult cases is my hobby," L ignored the sharp inhale behind him, tinged with more than a bit of disapproval, " If you measured good and evil deeds by current laws, I would be responsible for many crimes...

"The same way you all like to solve mysteries and riddles, or clear video games more quickly. For me too, it's simply prolonging something I enjoy doing. That's why I only take on cases that pique my interest..." his gaze flickered, quickly taking in the stunned, pale faces of the children listening to him shatter their delusions, " It's not justice at all. And if it means being able to clear a case, I don't play fair, I'm a dishonest, cheating human being who hates losing."

There. They'd asked, and he'd answered. L watched the children shift uncomfortably, lost and confused by their idol's abrupt fall from grace. His gaze flickered to Watari's, staring as his guardian pinched the bridge of his nose, hard, fighting back an aggrieved sigh.

The man, who often scolded him for lying to clients and suspect alike, didn't look too pleased with his attempt at absolute honesty. L bit back a grin. He couldn't say he hadn't tried things Watari's way. If the man didn't like the results, he shouldn't have asked for it.

L turned back to the screen. The children looked downtrodden, quiet. The endless chatter that had dragged on for more than an hour had died away. At least there would be no more questions, not tonight.

Subtle movement at the edge of the screen drew his gaze. There, tucked away in the corner of the room on the opposite side of the video feed, were the boys—Mello, Matt and Near, if he remembered correctly—that had shown so much promise. While Matt played with his hand-held, smoking and ignoring the world around him, the other two stared straight into the camera, seemingly staring L down.

However...L blinked. He felt a grin tugging at his lips. Unlike the others, they didn't wear looks of disappointment or sadness. Their gazes were hard, cruel.

L's gaze was distant, even as the feed flickered and the screen went blank. He continued to smile, his grin stretching his lips wide. He wasn't one for smiling, so he knew that Watari was calculating the likelihood of something unpleasant occurring that would cause such a smile to stretch his lips.

"L...what is it?"

"I found them."

"Them...you mean..?"

"Yes."

The silence was evidence enough of Watari's shock. The man had never said as much, but L knew he feared that he'd never choose another heir...or heirs...after what happened with A and B. He probably would have been right, had those boys been wearing any other expressions than that of hard indifference, of ruthless, detached cruelty.

L leaned back on his heels, tilting his head back to gaze at the ceiling blankly. His voice was low, distracted, as he spoke to his guardian.

"There are...many types of monsters in this world, Watari...monsters who will not show themselves and who cause trouble; monsters who abduct children; monsters who devour dreams; monsters who suck blood, and... monsters who always tell lies."

L felt his guardian's gaze boring into his face. He turned to meet the man's gaze, taking in the solemn expression, and the quiet need to understand. He jerked his gaze away, biting back a sigh of frustration.

"Lying monsters are a real nuisance. They are much more cunning than other monsters. They pose as humans even though they have no understanding of the human heart. They eat even though they've never experienced hunger. They study even though they have no interest in academics. They seek friendship even though they do not know how to love. If I were to encounter such a monster, I would likely be eaten by it. Because in truth, I am that monster."

The silence settled over the pair for a moment. L was not startled when his guardian's voice broke the silence. He had expected the question even as it left the man's lips. "...and those boys..?"

"Yes. That's why I know that they could handle this, being L. Just as I am that monster, so are they."

This time, Watari didn't break the silence that settled between the two of them.

. . . .

**It's All In The Past: February 1979-July 1980**

Arkadi Morine had been known to many people, by many names. This was understandable. A con man was only as good as his alias, after all.

...and he was a GOOD con man. He had long ago perfected his ability to become his alias, to draw his marks to him. Though he was a striking, handsome man, his looks played a little part in his success. No...it was his devastating brilliance, his dangerous insight, that made him so good at what he did. He was, in his own immodest opinion, the modern day Professor Moriarty.

Arkadi could, with a simple glance, figure out just how to approach a person to get them to react in the desired manner. It would sound like an exaggeration if admitted aloud, but it was true. He'd long ago figured it out, worked out the calculations, the percentages, of how certain approaches would succeed on certain personality types.

For some, he took the serious, academic route. Like for Maria-Luisa.

Maria-Luisa Lawliet, the only daughter of an Italian Socialite and an English Tennis player, was utterly devoted to her books. Unlike her mother or her celebrity father, she had no time for parties or intrigue. She would much rather discuss a book, or an opera, than the latest Hollywood scandal, and for this, her parents found her disappointing.

Thus, James Drakos, an Anglo-Greek gentleman of modest upbringing, who worked as a petty clerk in a small law firm, was born. Though he would happily lie about his position to a less inquisitive mark, he had gone the extra mile, securing an actual position in a small law firm. He knew that this woman was not one who'd overlook an inconsistency, who'd do her own digging. So, he'd dragged his feet, but done what he'd had to do.

The work was demeaning, but made bearable by the knowledge that it was a means to an end. A means to getting closer to Maria-Luisa. His sacrifice paid off, as the young lady proved his estimation of her character true, digging into his job, his employer, with a ruthlessness that would have been unfortunate, had his position been but a lie.

The young lady, secure in her knowledge that her beau was genuine, had quickly fallen into Arkadi's arms in a record-breaking two weeks, and into his bed even sooner than that. He strongly suspected she had been looking for an excuse to break away from her family, but didn't pry. He, after all, wasn't about to complain about the silly girl making his job easier.

Though he enjoyed her amorous company for the month it lasted, he enjoyed her fortune and his freedom more, and felt absolutely no guilt over leaving her behind, pregnant with his child, to face her tyrannical mother. Honestly, it wasn't as if the girl would suffer too much. Maria-Luisa's mother was far more likely to be upset at the loss of a third of her fortune than at the prospect of an illegitimate grandchild. That was just how the bothersome woman worked. So, Arkadi didn't think on it any further.

Instead, he moved on to his next mark, and the next, never thinking of her or his child again, save for once. Sitting in a cozy pub, sipping at a pint of bitters as he nibbled on some chips, Arkadi lazily thumbed through the small stack of gossip rags sitting on the bar next to his pint. It was raining, and he had time to kill, so felt no shame in indulging in a bit of laziness.

It was as he was thumbing through the last mag in the pile that he found it, a small article printed on the third page, covering his former lover's death

_A Family's Shame: The Rise and Fall of Maria Lawliet, Public Darling_.

_By Morris Frankland_

_In the early hours of 1__st__ November, 1979_, _friends and family of the daughter of the well-known Tennis Star, Edmund Lawliet, and his Italian-wife, Grazia dii Savidiis-Lawliet, suffered a terrible loss, when young Maria-Luisa Lawliet died, after a difficult childbirth._

_ The name of the infant, born a minute to midnight, 31__st__ October, has not been released to the press. The child, the illegitimate child of an unnamed lover, was surrendered to authorities early this morning by the bereaved grandparents, much to the public's shock._

_ "After the recent loss of our daughter, we find ourselves in a difficult position...dealing with the death of our child, and saddled with the responsibility of a newborn. At this time, we feel it too difficult to take care of the infant. We hold no ill will towards the child or the unnamed father, but instead hope that the child may grow up out of the public eye, and away from the stigma of his birth," said Mme. Lawliet, in a statement to the press._

_ A friend of the deceased Maria-Luisa, who wishes to remain anonymous, had this to say: "It's just as well that the child was put in Care. Maria had no real desire for kids, I don't think. She only kept it because it was a reminder of her lover, who she thought might come back to her, if he knew she had his kid. Once she figured out he wasn't interested, she probably would have given the kid up, anyway."_

_ Though this statement remains speculation, one thing is perfectly clear: with a family seemingly so unconcerned with his well-being, the baby is probably better off growing up away from his birth family, and the public eye. _

Arkadi, though surprised at the death of his lover, was not at all moved. Death came for us all, at one time or another. He was just glad that he hadn't been saddled with his son, as he had no time for children in his particular line of work.

This was later, though.

The actual night of his lover's death and son's birth, Arkadi, in the guise of a Japanese-born artist, Hideaki Takeshi, was entertaining his latest mark, who had been notably more difficult to talk into bed.

Lily Potter, nee Evans, wasn't so much born into money as married into it, and unhappily, at that. Her marriage was the culmination of years of courting, of endless struggle, of girlhood romantic fantasies, and it was a huge bust. It had been the work of months, but he'd heard the whole tedious, pitiful tale of a school boy's infatuation, and a teenage romance, a rushed marriage, and the bitter fallout.

Apparently, once the rose colored glasses came off, her husband wasn't that perfect, after all. He was still the "insufferable toe-rag" he'd been in school, except now, he had no parents to answer to, and a fortune to back up his 20-something ego. Blah, blah...and still an unrepentant womanizer, blah. Like he said, tedious.

Still, he'd listened to every painful detail, feigning interest with every bit of his talent. Lily Potter, and her husband's net worth of ₤300 million, was worth every second of tedium. The fact that the family was both intensely private and relatively unknown in much of High Society made the chase all the more thrilling for Arkadi.

Still, he'd felt his impatience growing, daily. It had taken a great deal more restraint than he thought he had not to jump the gun, so to speak, and try his hand at bedding her. He'd done the calculations. He knew if he moved too fast, or pushed too hard, she'd lash out, or lose interest. For her, Arkadi—well, Takeshi—was a means of escape, of letting go of marital expectation. For Lily, it wasn't necessarily sexual, though he could tell she was less opposed to the idea than was comfortable for her.

Still, he didn't push. She was the courting type, that was clear. He'd need to take his time with her, less he lose her altogether. So, he had. He'd listened, and sympathized, and been friendly, and taken her on dates couched as friendly outings. He was so romantic he impressed himself, though he honestly found it all nauseating and trite.

In the end, the waiting was worth it, as it was she who seduced him, and quite enthusiastically. Apparently, a few pints and a burlesque show at a local Cabaret was just titillating enough to do the trick. After all his bother being romantic, it was the one, random night of hedonistic indulgence that did it. How...frustrating.

Still, it did the trick, so he wasn't going to complain too much. At least not out loud. No, he held his tongue, saving all vocal outburst for their tumbles between the sheets. Truly, it was intensely satisfying to his ego to be so desired. Even more satisfying, however, was getting his hands on her account information.

...though, for some reason, her personal accounts held a lot less than he expected. Maybe her husband trusted her less than she thought, or kept his money elsewhere? He didn't think about it, much...

Not that he'd not tried to think on it, just...he couldn't seem to stay focused. Maybe he was trying to do too much. It was the only explanation for why he always seemed to forget appointments he'd made, til last minute, til he was trying to take the time to sit down and look into her bank records.

Still, he'd made himself a good fortune in cash, stock, and valuables, so called it time well spent. Not to mention the sex. That was definitely a pleasant side benefit, he could admit, though definitely not enough to stick around for.

Just as with Maria-Luisa, he left Lily without a word or thought, distracted with plans for the funds sitting in wait in his Swiss bank account. Just as with Maria-Luisa, he left behind more than an angry, scorned lover to whom he gave nary a thought.

It was too bad he didn't bother to take into account this lover's cleverness, or resourcefulness. She had been a means to an end, a thing, and that was his mistake. One that he regretted as he stared through the bars of his dank, cramped cell. One that he regretted as the...the...things, the monsters, floated past his tiny prison, dragging forth his every nightmare, until he breathed his last, tortured breath.

. . . .

Lily stared at her growing belly with a sense of wonder. Sure, she knew where babies came from. Still, that didn't stop her from being amazed every time she felt the gentle bump of her baby's foot against her hand, stretching the skin of her abdomen just enough to see the movement. Now, if only James could get his head out of his arse.

She sighed. She wasn't dumb. She knew why James was feeling angry and resentful. She got it. She had slept with a stranger—not once, but numerous times, and was now happily having his kid. Still, that didn't make her child any less of a gift.

Also, it wasn't as if she didn't know about what he and Sirius had been up to with Dorcas Meadowes a few weeks ago. So, the whole thing with James being fussy about sleeping with someone else, well...

That was the cask calling the cauldron black, wasn't it?

Lily leaned back against her headboard, lifting her book and propping it against the large curve of her belly. The spine of the book creaked as she slowly opened it, and she smiled. There was something about the musty smell of books, the crinkle of the thick pages, the old leather bindings, that held more magic for her than any spell she'd learned at Hogwarts.

Her son kicked, again, shifting restlessly. Lily's hand smoothed over the curve of her stomach, and she winced at the accompanying twinge in her back. "Hush now, darling. Mummy's back can't take any more of that right now."

Her darling boy didn't stop, however. His movements, like a swirl of butterflies and the sloshing of water in a cauldron, was distracting, as were the twinges racing up her back. Lily shifted against the headboard, tugging her pillows more firmly under her back. Once her boy realized she was settling down to read, he too would calm down, she was certain.

Only...an hour passed, then another, and there was no end in sight for the child's restlessness, or the pain that followed in its wake.

"Honestly, darling. What has you in such a fuss?"

As if in reply, her water broke, and Lily felt all her hard-won calm disappear. _"Oh..."_

. . . .

**Note on Arkadi's fate: **You all might think his punishment is a bit...harsh...considering his crime (as do I), but consider this. To the pure-bloods in charge, he is but a thieving, conniving muggle, who seduced the "poor, misguided muggle-born" wife of a wealthy, influential peer. Of COURSE they are going to overreact. Of COURSE they are going to break some rules to see their version of justice done. Just look at what happened to Sirius. He, at least, had the benefit of being a wealthy pure-blood, and even that didn't save him from being thrown into prison without a trial. If Sirius couldn't get a trial, let alone a fair one, they sure as hell aren't going to bother giving one to a muggle con man who robbed and "shamed" a peer from an influential family.

**Notes on my choice of OC: **L is canonically considered by the manga-ka to be ¼ English, ¼ Russian, ¼ Japanese, and ¼ French OR Italian. This, obviously, gives me lots of leeway to play with L's parents, who remain a mystery, in canon. Just to clarify, I made L's mother Anglo-Italian and his (and Harry's) father Russo-Japanese.

[end]


	2. Chapter 2

**Sins of the Brother**

**Premise: **For most of his life, Harry had been paying for _something_. Whether it was for the imagined slights visited upon his aunt by his mother, or the deliberate hurts his professor suffered at his father's hand. Now, he must pay for the selfish indulgences of an older half-brother he never knew he had.

**Warnings: **Marital Infidelity, L being L, Smart-ass Harry, Mello (who ALWAYS needs a warning), teen smoking (*cough*Matt*cough*), and Raito's villainous monologuing. OH, and one...count em, ONE O.C. ...a necessary OC, but nonetheless. Forgive me.

Also, **Massive Spoilers.**

**Disclaimer: **Neither series belong to me. The basic premise of this mash up, certainly, but the source material..? No. OH, also...some of the quotes are pulled from the _Death Note_ anime/manga...I am familiar with both, and can't always recall which came from which, so fair warning. Though they may be altered slightly for context, I still acknowledge that they are originated elsewhere.

.. .. .. ..

"The younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder"-Jane Austen

.. .. .. ..

**A Very Sirius Discussion**

**It's All In The Past: 1994**

Harry had had about as much as he could fucking handle.

You'd think, after so many years of catching shit, that he'd get used to it. Well, he had, to some extent, but that didn't mean the side-eyes, the sly smirks aimed in his direction, or the whispers didn't bother him. He was hardened, not inhuman, after all.

Bastard

Stain

Whore's Son

He'd heard them all, and more, from his so-called family growing up. Even before he knew what "bastard spawn" meant, that is who he'd been to "perfect, prim Petunia," who'd prided herself on her drab normality, and shunned him for the so-called sins of his mother, who'd had the audacity to fall in love with someone other than her lawfully wedded husband. It was all rather stupid and demoralizing, to be honest.

Still, he'd grown used to it, and could tune out the slurs, more often than not. It helped that he disliked his family as much as they did him, so it made it easier for the taunts to roll off his back. After all, what should it matter if people he disliked and could never respect disapproved of him?

Those taunts, and jeers, and stares he could ignore. The ones from his classmates, however, were different.

Son of a Mudblood Whore

...well, there was something about hearing that, that first time from Malfoy that'd made him flinch away, run to the nearest abandoned classroom and break down in sobs.

It wasn't even that Malfoy, somebody who he disliked more than the Dursleys, had said it in front of his classmates. It wasn't even the fact that nobody...nobody...argued the point, other than to object to the wording of the insult. He was a bastard...that was fact.

The thing that got him, though, that made the tears run, was the fact that someone who'd known his mother, had known him as a baby, had disliked them both enough to talk about them behind their backs. The fact that James Potter, his supposedly adoring step-father, was the prime suspect for gossip-monger was like a punch in the gut.

Still, by second year, even that didn't phase him. Well, not until he'd heard it come from the mouths of his supposed friends, from fellow Gryffindors, as they stared at him meanly, interjecting epithets of "bastard" and "whore's son" with snide comments about "filthy snakes."

...which brought him back to the fact that he'd had about as much as he could fucking handle.

Though the slurs didn't help, to be sure, the deal breaker had really been Remus Lupin. Well, not the man himself, necessarily, but more the fact that he was his fucking godfather and hadn't bothered to tell him as much to his face. No. He'd had to find out from Sirius fucking Black, who practically frothed at the mouth as he ranted about Wormtail, and James, and his mother's betrayal, and James, as he'd held them all at wand-point, trying to get Ron to give up his goddamn rat.

Honestly, had things not been so dire, he would have hit the redhead. A manky old rat he constantly complained about was not something worth dying for.

Still, that hadn't mattered in the end. The truth had come out...blah, fucking, blah, blah. Whatever. The fact was, he had a living godfather who was perfectly capable of looking after him, granted proper precautions were taken during his "time of the month," who couldn't be arsed with him. No. Instead, said godfather disappeared once more, with only the vaguest of promises to keep in touch, as if that was worth anything, at this point.

"Take care, Harry...I'll write"? How about fuck you, too.

He'd believe that when he saw it, and not a moment before. Hermione referred to this as his "trust issue thing." Harry just saw it as having realistic expectations. He'd be an idiot to trust the word of a man he barely knew, godfather or no, no matter how nice he seemed..."fool me once, shame on you...fool me twice, shame on me," and all that.

He leaned against the window of the train, letting the slow rocking and the steady thrum of the steam engine lull him into a dreamless sleep.

. . . . .

Parchment crinkled in his grip as his fingers tightened on the letter. Harry scowled at his ceiling, blinking back tears. So. He'd been right.

To be honest, Harry didn't know why he hadn't just written Remus. His pitiful godfather, unlike Sirius, seemed at least capable of talking about his conception without flipping a lid. Maybe he'd been feeling resentful of the lack of letters from Remus, or maybe it was the years of being ignored and left to rot at the Dursleys. Whatever the case, he'd written Sirius instead, which was stupid, in hindsight.

The man had more than proven to be extremely touchy on the subject of his mother's so-called "heartless betrayal" of the vaunted James Potter. So, he really had no room being surprised when the man wrote back to confirm, in no uncertain terms, that yes, James had been the one to let everyone in on his mother's "dirty little secret."

"_...you must understand, Harry, that James loved your mother very dearly, and this betrayal was unspeakably ugly to him...he, who was raised in a traditional family, who valued family, above all else. _

_To see his wife growing round with a stranger's child was too much. It was a blow to his pride that his wife, HIS, would let another man touch her. Sure, he'd looked at other women, and flirted a bit, but James had never touched them, and had assumed Lily knew enough to know he never would. The fact that she, whom he loved most, seemed to understand him the least was almost harder for him than the betrayal, I think. _

_I won't say he hated her, or you, per se, but he was understandably angry at the entire situation._

_It was mostly because of this that he spent a lot of time away from your mother, in those days. Mostly, he wandered the pubs, which was unfortunate, as James never could hold his liquor. I usually tagged along, if not to drink, then to make sure he didn't end up locked up for public drunkenness._

_Mostly, he cried...for you not being his, for your mother turning her back on him, and so on, but he also raged...and rightly so. Maybe it would have been better to let him vent in private, where nobody could overhear, but James always had a way about him that made it hard to refuse him, even if he was always a terribly loud, chatty drunk. _

_It was unfortunate that it happened like it did, but it would have got out sooner or later._

_I hope this answers your questions. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Harry. Remus should have done so long ago, because you deserve the truth. You deserve to know why people look at you like they do, why Remus—your mother's friend—was chosen as your godfather, instead of me, James' brother in all but blood. _

_Take care,_

_ S"_

Harry swiped irritably at the tears on his cheeks, tossing the parchment clear across the room. He watched as it bounced off the wall, rolled a ways across the wooden floor, and came to a stop near the dusty heater vent. He should probably throw it away, so it didn't catch on fire, but...he kind of hoped it did.

He'd like nothing more than to see that letter, full of false sympathy and unmistakable bias, burn, and perhaps take the hellhole that was the Dursley house with it. It would remove two sources of misery in one shot, like killing two birds with one stone.

A tremulous sigh shook him, and he bit his lip to push back the tears. He was done with this...this...feeling guilty thing. So, his mum was human. So fucking what? He wasn't going to apologize for her...she was allowed to be imperfect. She was his mum, and she had loved him, as he still loved her. That was all that mattered to him. Anyone who'd demand he apologize for existing could blow it out their arse.

A smile stretched pale lips as the parchment, half resting on top of the metal heat vent, started to smoke.

. . . . .

L shoved another forkful of cake into his mouth and scowled. He stared pointedly at the case file, ignoring the stare he could feel burning into the back of his neck. His fork danced its slow, familiar waltz...a gentle slide though the tender flesh of the cake, a quick stab of the tines, and a lazy pirouette as it made it's way to his mouth...and repeat.

He hummed, a little smile curling his lips. The glare intensified.

"I don't see what's amusing about this situation, L. This is serious."

L turned to meet his keeper's stare, his dark, bored eyes meeting Watari's more concerned gaze.

"Of course it is, Watari. I intend to give it my full attention," L turned back to his cake, dropping the heavy file carelessly, "as soon as I finish this cake."

He ignored his guardian's uncharacteristically agitated condemnation of "stubborn teenagers," and refocused his attention on his treat.

Honestly, he didn't see the problem. Whether he read the reports now or in twenty minutes, it wouldn't change the facts. 'A' was still confined to bed-rest and on constant suicide watch. 'B' was still in need of an in-depth psychological evaluation, and potentially due for a loss of privileges for traumatizing his fellow residents with his precious wara ningyo dolls. Roger was still losing sleep over the increasing possibility of having to replace the long sought-after heirs to L's legacy. This...none of this was going to be solved in the time it took for him to eat his cake.

So, instead of reading through the fine print and wracking his brain to come up with 10, 50, 300 possible solutions to the numerous issues plaguing his former residence, the fourteen year old former Junior English Tennis Champ and World's Greatest Detective ate his cake.

To be fair, it was really, really good cake.

Watari sighed somewhere behind him, and L frowned. He knew the man disapproved of what he called his "emotional detachment," but didn't see the point in correcting his behavior. It was his ability to detach, to view situations without emotion, that made him such an effective detective.

L gently wiped his hands on his napkin, taking his time to clean each finger til he was satisfied. Only then did the turn back to the depressing stack of reports waiting for him. His teeth dug into the pad of his thumb in frustration.

"What is it?"

Dark eyes flickered in Watari's direction before locking back onto the pages as he flipped through them rapidly. "This isn't going to work."

"What isn't going to work?"

He gestured, frustrated, at the files for 'A' and 'B.' "What Roger's doing. It isn't going to work."

Watari frowned, and L turned to face him. His eyes took in his guardian's face as multiple emotions flickered across his gaze, each more complicated than the next. He watched the man's thin lips as he hesitated several times, as if he needed to ask something, an important something, but couldn't quite make the words come out.

"Sometimes, questions are complicated..."

Startled eyes met L's, and the boy smiled. "It is the answers that are simple."

Watari's expression cleared, and L's gaze stayed fixed on his guardian's face, reading every question as it flickered across the man's face.

_ What can we do about this?_

Nothing.

_Can it be stopped?_

Not anymore.

_What will we do once all is said and done?_

Start over, of course.

Watari sighed, turning away from L's gaze. He watched the man lower himself into his chair, shaking with grief. The man, for all his strength, his impassiveness, really did care about all his charges. L had known this from the moment he met him, and was glad of it. After all, he certainly didn't care, and Roger, well...it was best to let him just run things and focus on his bugs.

. . . . .

The call came around midnight, when L was having another snack—a succulent Tiramisu, this time, from a lovely Italian bakery down the road. The devoured his treat slowly, humming under his breath as the coffee liquor and lady's fingers danced across his palate. He sipped at his hot chocolate—the proper French kind, thick enough to stand up a spoon in—and sighed blissfully.

The low, trembling murmur from Watari drew his attention, but only for a moment. He'd known, after all, that this was coming. He'd told his guardian as much. There was nothing...nothing...that he or the nurses could do to stop 'A' from doing what he'd been trying to do for so long. The boy, though not of L's calibre, was still a genius. Any barrier the nursing staff put up was only temporary.

"...funeral arrangements..."

L tuned out, again. As much as he wasn't looking forward to it, he knew his guardian would insist that they return to England, if only for the wake. Of course, he wouldn't attend as himself, but he'd still be expected to be there.

How troublesome.

The clatter of the phone landing in the cradle caught his attention. Fork dangling from his lips, L turned to look at his guardian. Watari's looked shattered, despite his lack of tears. This was expected. Though he liked his wards, he wouldn't have gotten far with a house-hold of genii if he let himself give in to emotion.

"When do we fly back?"

Watari gave him a Look for talking with his mouth full, but didn't call him on his poor manners. "In two days. They're still trying to track down B."

L blinked. He wasn't so much surprised as impressed that the strange boy had taken the opportunity presented to escape. He had always seemed more the type for grand entrances and departures. Huh. He'd have to keep this in mind.

"They won't find him, if he doesn't wish to be found."

His guardian's stare was sharp, but he didn't question him. There were only two rules when dealing with L, after all: One, he was always right...and Two, if he was ever wrong...see rule One.

Watari sighed. "Even so, Roger needs a few days to make the arrangements."

L huffed impatiently, shoving more Tiramisu into his mouth.

"He's in the middle of tracking down a new resident, at the moment, so has enough on his plate without this."

He waved him off, turning his attention back at his treat. L didn't have to see his guardian to know the man was pinching the bridge of his nose.

Silence settled. After a moment, L sighed. Honestly, if the man wanted him to ask, he should say as much.

"...who is he trying to find?"

L scowled at Watari's pleased tone. He was doing the man a favor asking...he needn't act like he'd won something. "A child."

He stared at the man blankly, tired of playing along. If his guardian wanted to tell him about the child, he'd have to do so without prompting.

"There's a four-year-old boy...the local police suspect he's involved with the underground K.G.B. Presence in London."

L raised an eyebrow at Watari.

"They don't have an ID on him, yet, just that he's been seen in and around suspected hide-outs. He's usually disappears before they can grab him, but they have photos..."

He hummed. He'd have to take a look at those photos when they got back. They, at least, would be a much more interesting than a funeral.

. . . . .

Blonde hair whipped around a tiny face twisted into a scowl as he was grabbed around the waist and lifted into the air.

"We got 'im!"

The child fought against the hold, forcing back the tears that made his vision swim. He wouldn't cry...he'd never let these fucking bastards see him cry.

He was better than that.

He was better than _them._

The officer holding him didn't flinch as he struggled, chatting at them as if they were having some sort of pleasant conversation over god damn tea.

"So, what's yer name, kid?"

He didn't say anything. He knew better.

The officer sighed.

The boy watched, helplessly, as he was carried away from his only family, only home. If he was lucky, he'd be dumped in some crap orphanage. If he wasn't lucky, well...was there such a thing as prison for children his age? If so, that was where he was headed.

Only after the door of the cruiser was slammed behind him did he let himself cry. His chin rested on his chest, long blonde locks hiding his eyes. For that brief moment, he wasn't Mihael Keehl, the seasoned operative and prodigy.

No.

In that moment, he was Mihael Keehl, the four year old child.

Scared.

Lonely.

Hopeless.

...and he wanted to go home, god damn it.

. . . . .

**Note on L: **Yeah, so, he had a bit of a Shikamaru moment, there. Sorry-not-sorry.

**Note on James, Lily and Sirius: **I know that canonically Lily and James were supposed to be a perfect couple, and Sirius a wonderful godfather, who was an unfortunately "rowdy" teenager. That being said, I've never quite bought into that.

No marriage, no matter how long-lasting and functional, is perfect. There will always be reoccurring issues, fights, mistakes made, etc. That is true, here, too. James was less of a jerk as an adult than as a teenager in school, true, but he was still the uber flirtatious, spoiled pure blood heir...and Sirius was still his equally as entitled wing-man, always willing to take his side, no matter the truth of the situation.

As for Sirius, well...rowdy is one thing, mindlessly vengeful is another. As much as I love the character, the facts are the facts. The so-called harmless prank on Severus could have—no, would have killed him—and most certainly would have condemned Remus to imprisonment or death. Also, there was the fact that Sirius actively egged on Harry to break the rules in a situation that presented very real danger to him, with Umbridge in charge.

All to say that, yeah, the "cheating Lily" thing may seem like an overdone, semi-bashing trope, but keep in mind that NOBODY, not even the supposedly 'wronged' James, or wrongly imprisoned Sirius, is perfect, here.

[end]


	3. Chapter 3

**Sins of the Brother**

**Premise: **For most of his life, Harry had been paying for _something_. Whether it was for the imagined slights visited upon his aunt by his mother, or the deliberate hurts his professor suffered at his father's hand. Now, he must pay for the selfish indulgences of an older half-brother he never knew he had.

**Warnings: **Marital Infidelity, L being L, Smart-ass Harry, Mello (who ALWAYS needs a warning), teen smoking (*cough*Matt*cough*), and Raito's villainous monologuing. OH, and one...count em, ONE O.C. ...a necessary OC, but nonetheless. Forgive me.

Also, **Massive Spoilers.**

**Disclaimer:** SEE CHAPTER ONE. STILL NOT MINE.

At long last, the next chapter. Now that I've found a new job, I will hopefully have more motivation to write and post. Not sure when I'll be updating my other stories, but they are not abandoned...fear not.

. . . . .

**Ashes to Ashes**

**It's All In The Past: 1994 (continued) **

To be reborn from the ashes, like a phoenix...

It was a compelling image, even if Harry wasn't so bold as to compare himself to an immortal fire bird. The Greeks would have accused him of Hubris, the Egyptians condemned him, and the Early Christians probably have screamed heresy. Even so, he couldn't deny that he imagined he knew what the phoenix must have felt, in that moment of rebirth, stepping through those flames...singed, but very much alive.

His skin trembled in remembered pain, and he flinched as the bright, hot flames danced behind his eyes. It had spread so quickly, nearly too quickly for him to run out of his room. Were he one to believe in fate, Harry was sure he would have been down on his knees, praising...whomever...that his door hadn't been locked, that he hadn't been left to burn alive by his less than sympathetic family.

No. Instead, the house and all their precious, little trinkets...the bits and bobs they held so dear...had gone up in smoke. It was hard not to be pleased about that, watching his insufferable family's years of scheming, of social climbing, or petty neighborhood rivalries, amount to nothing but ashes and embers.

Harry shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around him. For all the dizzying heat radiating from the fluorescent lights, the police station was uncomfortably cold. Of course, it very well could be shock setting in, so there was that, too.

"Son, can you tell me what happened?"

He shifted, hazy green eyes meeting the dark hazel of the officer across from him. For all his solemn demeanor, his eyes were kind, just beginning to show the markings of age in the smile lines stretching towards his temples. Harry took a sip from the water glass perched on the edge of the officer's desk.

"I was in my room, and I smelled the smoke, first. The drapes caught, and I ran out and got my aunt and uncle. I dunno who called the fire department, though. We were outside for a few minutes before I heard the sirens."

The man nodded, leaning back in his chair. Harry ignored his aunt and uncle's snuffling, and the muffled wails coming from Dudley as the useless lump bemoaned the loss of his precious toys for the hundredth time.

"I see. So, you didn't see what caused it?"

Harry ignored his uncle's dark grumbling, even as he felt a surge of satisfaction when the officer sent the man an unimpressed glare. "No, I didn't. I don't usually keep it too messy, so I'm not sure. Could have been anything."

"Like you didn't have anything to do with it, Freak." His head whipped around to glare at Dudley, the blonde meeting his unimpressed stare with a pitiful glare. "I bet you caused it, didn't you?"

Harry sniffed. "Don't be ridiculous. Why would I do something so stupid?"

"You hated it there! You know you did!"

Oh, this was almost too good. It was like Dudley was begging him to tell the nice officer exactly why he hated living with his aunt and uncle. His aunt and uncle seemed to catch that gleam of challenge in his eyes if they way they were trying to quell Dudley was any indication.

"Enough, Dudley."

"But—the freak just..!"

"No, no. It's alright, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon. Go on, Dudley. Tell me why I'd hate living with you so much?"

The boy blinked, his beady eyes darting between his parents' pale faces and his small smile. He swallowed heavily, and sat back. Still, too little, too late. The officer's gaze was fixed upon Petunia and Vernon's fixed expressions, looking less and less impressed by the second. His gaze didn't leave the cowering adults when he spoke.

"Tell you what...Dudley, was it? Go tell my partner to give you some change for the vending machine. Get yourself a snack."

The blonde seemed to perk up, dashing from the office. An uncomfortable silence settled, though it was obviously less uncomfortable for Harry than the Dursleys. After a moment, the officer's partner wandered in, minus Dudley. "Paul?"

"Geoff. Would you mind taking the Dursleys to get some coffee while I chat with Harry for a minute alone?"

The man nodded. For a moment, Harry thought Vernon would argue, put up a fight. A challenging glare from the officer called Paul seemed to change his mind. With one last feeble glare in his direction, Vernon and Petunia were led out of the room, the door closing behind him.

Harry followed them with his gaze until they disappeared down the hall, before turning back to the officer. The man's gaze was studying him intently, looking like he was fighting the urge to reach across the desk and pat his hands. "Now, Harry...why don't you tell me why you're cousin seemed to think you were so unhappy at home..."

He considered, for a moment, lying. It would be a huge bother to get the police involved in his business, true, but...what did he really owe the Dursleys? Even if he let them off the hook now, they wouldn't thank him for it. He'd still be the "freak," the "little bastard" that had been dumped like trash on their front stoop.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. He took a deep, bracing breath, and spoke.

. . . . .

The building looked no different than any other government building, for all that it housed near two and a half dozen kids, aged six months to eighteen years old. Still, for all its looming, gray edifice and rusting gate, it was a far cry from the horror his wretched family had described when they'd threatened to put him into Care. Harry clutched the black plastic bin liner tightly. There wasn't much, just a few changes of pants, some trousers, and a single shirt, but it was all he had, for now.

Green eyes darted around the yard, watching a group of girls a few years his senior laugh as their peers chucked a handful of mud at a few of the younger boys. Harry sighed. He wondered, not for the first time, if he should have just bite the bullet and contacted Remus. Maybe he should have. Maybe, just this once, the man would have pulled through for him.

Maybe, had he been a little more trusting, he would have bothered finding out. As it was, Harry didn't see why he should bother. Any man, any godfather that could let him languish with the Dursleys for twelve years, stick around for a few months, then vanish again without so much as a "I missed you," or a "I'm sorry," was not to be counted on to be reliable.

"Now, I understand you attend boarding school in Scotland, is that correct?"

Harry blinked, turning his gaze toward the spindly social worker at his side, who was giving him her very best polite, bureaucratic smile. "Yes, ma'am, that's correct."

"Will you be able to contact them regarding your new situation? If you plan to continue on there, they will need to make arrangements for your transportation to and from school, any shopping you need to do, and so on."

"I understand." ...and Harry did understand. Unless his professors planned on taking time out of their schedules to babysit him, he was stuck.

"Good! Let's get you settled, then."

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, and failed. Honestly, there was no need to sound so happy about things. Yes, this was better than being shunted back to his horrible family, but it was by no means ideal. He was effectively stuck, unless he was fostered or picked up by his wayward godfather. The former was unlikely, the latter would happen when pigs flew...correction: when a muggle made pigs fly.

Harry startled, looking down as one of the little boys from earlier collided with his legs. Hair the color of sunflowers and autumn leaves crowned a tiny, pale face with eyes nearly as green as his own. It was ...weird, like looking into the face of who he could have been, if he'd inherited more than just his mother's eyes.

"Hello! Are you new? I don't know you!"

He smirked down at the little boy, his nose still streaked with drying mud. "Yeah, I'm new."

"Nice to meet you, then. I'm Myles Jevas!"

Harry bit back a laugh, crouching down to properly greet the well-spoken little squirt. "Pleased to meet you, Myles Jevas. I'm Harry."

"Just Harry?"

He bit back a laugh. As bright as the boy seemed, he probably wouldn't get that he was laughing at his own little joke, and not at him. "Harry..Evans, I suppose."

"Why, don't you know?"

He shrugged. "Not really. My mum's husband wasn't my da', and I don't know who was, so..."

"Oh...well, nice to meet you, too, Harry Evans!"

He blinked, watching as the smiling redhead dashed out of the room with a wave.

. . . . .

L could admit that he was childish, selfish, cruel, and impatient. He could also admit, if only in the privacy of his own mind, that most people far more normal (and boring) than he would have tried very hard to overcome these so-called personality flaws. He, however, was not "most people." He wasn't even "some people," or even counted amongst the "rare few" that he'd heard mentioned on occasion.

No, L was in a class all his own—genius, detective, and selfish bastard (quite literally, on that last bit) extraordinaire.

Thus, when Watari gave him a disapproving stare as he quite stubbornly refused to put aside his research in favor of the funeral, L felt not one ounce of guilt. Instead, he ignored the stare, quite happy to pick at his gateau delicately as he methodically dissected Roger's report on one Mihael Keehl.

"You need to make an appearance today."

L frowned, stabbing the tines of his fork through the delicate ganache with more violence than it deserved. "I really don't think that's necessary, Watari. My appearance, or lack thereof, will no more matter to the residents than it would to A."

"He was one of your heirs, L."

_ "Was,_ yes...and now he's not. It would be even a greater waste of time if we both went."

"Very well. What should I tell Roger?" L nearly scoffed at his minder. Really, he knew the man was attached to the children, but it was very nearly insulting that he thought that level of emotional manipulation would work on him. He should know better by now.

"Tell him whatever you want. Tell him I'm reviewing the Keehl boy's file for him. Tell him I'm working on a case. I don't care, either way."

He shifted under the weight of Watari's stare for a moment before the man finally turned and left.

L sat, listening carefully as his minder's footsteps faded down the hall. Slowly, he rose to his feet, shuffling over to his bed and pulling back the sheets where he'd noticed they'd been disturbed. What was once pristine white cotton was now a mess of strawberry jam, loose straw, and the ragged edged tears caused by a very sharp hunting knife.

He sneered at the globs of jam, looking like rotting blood clots, clumping the loose straw and sticking it to the fabric of the ruined sheets. In the middle of the mess lay the centerpiece, the last gift from a truly disturbed child, albeit a genius child. A wara ningyo, pinned to the mattress by the knife in question, was torn to bits, stained with jam as if it were bleeding from it's many wounds. L reached out a hand and gingerly pulled the knife from the mattress. Normally, he'd wear gloves to preserve evidence, but he already knew the culprit. B.

L blinked. There, in the gaping hole that he assumed was supposed to be his chest was a gloppy strawberry right where his heart should be, and on either side was scrawled "B. Birthday" and "L. Lawliet."

B. Birthday "heart" L. Lawliet.

It was clever, in the distinctly disturbing way that was so very like B.

He wiped the tacky mess on his tattered sheets, pulling them from his bed to bundle up the jam, straw, and doll. He'd seen what he needed to. There was no need to preserve the scene, or hold on to the evidence. B certainly wasn't coming back, and L would be damned if he let anyone other than Watari tromp around his room, making a mess of things.

L eyed the tears in the mattress dispassionately. He'd need to replace the sheets before Watari got back, or he'd know something had happened, then there would be no stopping the man from tearing the place apart to investigate.

Fuck, what a bothersome mess.

It was a shame that it was A who'd died, and not B. At least A kept his messes to himself.

. . . . .

He could feel the scowl from across the room, even as Watari refrained from commenting on his mess. Well, not a mess, not really...more like a deliberate exorcise in controlled chaos that doubled as a brainstorming exercise. Yes. He quite liked the sound of that. It sounded much better than "clusterfuck of papers spread haphazardly across the floor because he was bored and out of cake."

"Dare I ask, L?"

He sniffed, ignoring the man for the moment as he carefully laid out a printed section of map next to page 52 of Roger's DOS EA on Mihael Keehl. "If you must know, I am working on a profile on our newest resident."

"We don't even know for sure if Roger will be able to procure him."

"He will. Roger is many things...many of which I won't say because he is your friend...but he is nothing if not efficient. So, having a working profile on him will be useful once the boy is in residence, especially as it seems you expect me to start reviewing the students to take over A and B's positions."

Watari sighed, and L heard the soft pat of the man's leather shoes as he carefully made his way into his room. Hopefully, the man would think to make them some tea, now that he was back...and maybe grab some cake...and make sure not to mess up his project, in the meantime.

"How was the wake?"

A muffles snort was heard over the clink of china in his kitchenette. He was right. The man was making tea. Good. "Do you actually care, L?"

"Of course not, but you do, so I am asking out of courtesy to you."

This time, his minder failed to hold back his laugh. L frowned. He didn't see what was so amusing about his lack of empathy. Empathy had yet to help him solve a case. "It was lovely, thank you...a few of the children spoke, and then Roger helped A's classmates bury the boy's ashes in the garden."

L hummed absently, eyes fixed on the grainy image of the child, his blonde hair a rat's nest that crowned his chubby, scowling face. So, he was an aggressive, angry child...good. Anger and aggressiveness he could predict, at least. A's quiet melancholia and B's volatile temper and growing psychosis had been far too unpredictable for his tastes.

The clatter of china and the smell of fresh strawberries pulled him from his thoughts. So, Watari had brought him some cake, after all. He made his way deftly through the maze of papers and effortlessly fell into his habitual crouch on the couch. He wouldn't have noticed, being so used to it, but for Watari's sigh of dismay and murmured comment about his posture.

Posture. Bah. Like posture had anything to do with anything. He could solve crimes well enough...better, in fact...than any of those others with their "healthy postures," and was still limber enough to excel at tennis. L curled further into his crouch, balancing his tea cup and saucer on one knee as he slowly added one...two...three...seven...twelve sugar cubes, a dash of milk, and stirred.

Perfection...and the cake, divine. If only he had an actual case, he'd be ecstatic.

. . . . .

B smirked as he dashed across the intersection, ignoring the startled cries of the pedestrians as he dodged cars, horns blaring in alarm. He had more important things to think about, and besides...B submitted to no one and nothing...not even traffic lights. He was a Top. Always had been, always would be.

He felt the grin stretch his thin mouth as he thought of L...his precious little Lawli Pop, as sweet as the tea he drank and the cake he ate. He so hoped that he'd appreciated the gift he left. After all, he'd used nearly half a jaw of his strawberry jam just for him.

He looked forward to the day when he could meet him again, if only to watch the light and the life fade from those pretty, pretty eyes...

. . . . .

**Note on B: **Yes, I will try to incorporate the events of "Another Note" into this, but fair warning that it will probably not be the same as canon (the victims' names, for one—GOOD GOD, those g-damn names—), as I am having a damn good time reusing and reworking canon to fit into the scenario I want it to fit into. Also, for anyone who caught the reference in this part, I applaud you. It was too good to leave out.

**Note on Mail Jeevas: **Not trying to be too nit-picky, but...BUT...I really don't buy the canonical spelling of this name. I just can't buy that spelling with a pronunciation of "Myles." Just...no. So, yeah, I am aware, I'm "doing it wrong," but it is quite on purpose.

[end]


End file.
